


a fading reminder

by acariad



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Lots of Angst, Oh gods the Angst...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:45:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acariad/pseuds/acariad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a series of drabbles/short oneshots centered around our mage and her templar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. if dreams were wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> drabbleish, short - Cullen dreams of Amell.

He dreams of her. Sometimes it’s innocent, and often it’s anything but. And sometimes, he wakes up and all he wants to do is to go back to sleep and never wake up again.

He dreams of a cottage on the outskirts of of a small town. The weather is warm and the air is perfumed with flowers. He dreams of her, standing at the door with a smile on her face as she sees him. Her hair is longer, and her eyes are brighter than he’s ever seen them. She’s not wearing the robes that mark her as a mage, just a simple dress. 

In his dream, he can walk up to her and kiss her and no one would care. And she returns his kiss with a laugh and throws her arms around his neck. In his dream, they’re happy. 

And then of course, it ends.

He opens his eyes and he’s back in his bed, surrounded by stone walls and the pressing weight of his guilt. Guilt for wanting what he couldn’t have.

He closes his eyes and swallows the sadness that threatens to overwhelm him. He will do his duty. He can’t falter. 

He repeats the chant in his head.

Just before sleep overtakes him again, it occurs to him that he’s never heard her laugh before.


	2. regret

He stood guard outside the apprentice dorms, and he hated himself. He hated the fact that he volunteered for this particular post. He hated the fact that the Knight-Commander agreed without a sign of hesitation. And he hated the fact that even after years and years of training to keep everything in check, his body still betrayed him.

The doors next to him creaked open, and Cullen couldn’t help but turn his head slightly to check who it was. And as luck would have it – or ill fortune, he still wasn’t quite sure which one it was just yet – it was her.

She walked out with multiple books stacked in her arms, tottering slightly under the weight of the heavy tomes.  _How can she see anything over those?_  He wondered. He resisted the urge to reach out, to help her (after all, templars don’t help mages with anything - unless it’s to help them into the Fade if they became abominations).

“H-hello,” his voice came out of him unthinkingly, stuttering like a mad man. He suppressed the urge to run and leap out of the nearest window. Barely.

She jumped slightly, but even that was enough to send the mountain of books toppling over onto the ground. Without thinking, he moved forwards and began scooping them up, barely managing to stammer out apologies. The sound her soft laughter however caused him to look up in shock. She smiled at him and tucked her flame red hair behind her ear.

“It’s fine, Cullen,” she said, picking up the last of the tomes in her arms. “It’s my fault really. I thought I could save myself a trip by carrying all of them to the library at once. I should’ve known that it wasn’t going to be that easy.” She gave him a sheepish look and bit her lip.

A hot flush ran through him as he stared at her (and tried not to stare at her mouth). He quickly ducked his head in an attempt to hide the fact that if there was a competition for who looked the most like a tomato, he would probably win it by a mile. It was no wonder that the others kept commenting and asking whether he was coming down with something so often, if this was how his body reacted every single time she was nearby.

Maybe he had a certain masochistic streak in him. Maker knew he willingly put himself through this torture. She sighed and looked around at the stacks of books.

“I suppose two trips are in order then,” she mutters to herself and straightens up with half the books in her hand.

“I-I could… you know… help you c-carry them?”

She looked up at him, startled. Cullen felt his cheeks burn brighter.

She shifted slightly and looked down at her slippers.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said softly.

He flushed again and stood up straight, gritting his teeth at his own stupidity. Of course. Bad idea to help a mage. Bad idea to  _talk_  to a mage. And yet here he was standing in front of her, offering to carry books for her.

He turned his head and gazed at the stone wall, at the tapestry hanging from the ceiling (at anywhere but her). Behind him, he could hear her awkwardly shuffling the rest of the books and stacking those, and then a tiny cough drew his eyes back to her again. She refused to meet his eyes as she walked back into her dorm with half the original stack, placing them down in her trunk before ducking back out to pick up the rest.

She straightened and glanced around the corridor. The hall was empty of mages and Templars alike – for now, at least. She cleared her throat and looked back at him, a small, sad smile on her face.

“Thank you for offering, Cullen,” she whispered before walking as fast as she could towards the stairs.

He felt his heart settle back into his ribcage with a lurch, and pressed his gauntlet to his face. The cool metal helped clear his thoughts.

He returned to his post, staring ahead and barely blinking.

He hated himself.


	3. look how they shine for you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after the Circle quest line, and before anything else. AU where Alistair conscripts Cullen into the Grey Wardens, and he is forced to come along with the rest of the motely crew.
> 
> Based off the prompt: Imagine your OTP slow dancing under the stars.

She couldn’t help but gaze at Cullen through the flickering flames of the fire. It had been three weeks since Alistair invoked the Right of Conscription, and the only words _he_ had spoken to her since they had left the Tower had been, “Keep your distance, mage,” when she tried to lend him a hand when he stumbled on the road.

It had hurt. Terribly. He had only ever called her by her name before, ever since he had learned it when they first crashed into each other in the halls of the Circle. The word 'mage' had been spat out with a hatred that she never would've expected from Cullen. She had turned her face away, refusing to let him see the tears that had welled up in her eyes. Alistair noticed however, and guided her away and cracked a stupid joke about how he had always thought that Ferelden needed more Cheese Chefs, earning him her eternal gratitude.

And tonight, they were on the same shift for keeping watch. Solona had a suspicion that somehow Wynne had gotten her hands on the roster and changed it so that they would be forced together, but of course, no proof. And aside from her mumbled greeting, the silence had simply dug its roots in between them and refused to budge. She cursed her lack of courage. _It’s Cullen, for goodness sake!_ her brain yelled at her. _You used to talk all the time! Remember all the times he was kind to you? Helped you? Just say something!_

 _Though of course, he didn’t hate all mages back then_ , the less-than-optimistic side of her brain supplied. Solona sighed and ducked her head, staring at the fraying edges of her robe. She really needed a new one. It didn’t look like it will last any more than a month at this rate. She looked up again for felt like the hundredth time, and steeled herself.

“Tonight’s pretty quiet,” she commented awkwardly. “No darkspawn around!”

She mentally hit herself over the head. Hard. He looked over at her and then glanced away, a look of annoyance crossing his features.

Silence.

She cringed.

 _By Andraste I am terrible at this,_ she lamented in her head. They sat silently for another couple of minutes, and Solona could feel her embarrassment rise with every passing second. Finally, she couldn’t take it any more and leapt to her feet. Mumbling some excuse about checking the perimeters, she moved towards the other side of the camp. Cullen didn’t seem to hear her though. _Not surprising,_ she thought glumly. Positioned herself directly south of where he was sitting, she stared out at the wild trees that surrounded their camp. She made a mental note to check over the rosters tomorrow. She didn’t want to have to deal with this again. Even Morrigan's snarky barbs would be more welcome than the painful, excruciating silence. 

She tried to turn her mind onto other things.

Darkspawn. No, not a good topic to think about. Especially if she wanted a good night's sleep after this.

She thought back to the first few days when they had picked up Leliana from Lothering. The lay-sister told her many stories from her travels and about the extravagance that was Orlais. She even proceeded to show Solona a type of dance called the ‘waltz’. The bard's description of the dance was so lovely, and Solona could almost picture a huge hall covered in tapestries and decorations, and at the centre, people twirling and dancing and laughing...

She closed her eyes and tried to remember how the movements felt when Leliana guided her through them. She raised her arms and stepped forward, left, back, right, and repeated it slowly a few times, all the while humming a nonsense tune that she vaguely remembered learning in the Tower.

“What are you doing?”

The voice cut through her trance and she dropped her arms as fast as she could, feeling her face flush red. Cullen was gazing at her with an odd expression on his face, as if he wasn’t exactly sure if she was trying to cast some spell or were just doing something extremely odd.

“I was… tryingtopracticehowtodance,” the words rushed out of her mouth in a giant tumble. He blinked at her. She squeezed her eyes shut in embarrassment.

“I was… I was trying to… practice how to dance,” she mumbled again at the ground, this time waiting until each word was out of her mouth before starting on the next. Silence.

“Your posture is wrong.”

She whipped her head up so fast that she was scared she might’ve twisted it.

“…I’m sorry?”

“I said,” he waved his hand with a slightly annoyed look on his face, “your posture is wrong. Also your steps are completely off.”

“Oh…” Solona glanced down at her slippers, and blushed. “I know I’m terrible, but Leliana showed me how to the other day and I’ve never danced anything like that before and we never really got a chance to dance in the Tow- “

“You need someone to dance with to practice properly.” He glanced around quickly, almost with an agitated manner before releasing a sigh.

“Here, let me show you.” With that, he stepped forward and tucked her hand in his, and positioned her other hand on his shoulder before placing his free one onto her waist.

“You know how to dance?” she blurted out in surprise. He stared down at her. She could feel her face burn as he locked gazes with her. His eyes skittered off her face before staring at some point beyond her head.

“Yes I do. Just… follow my lead, okay?” Solona nodded mutely, not trusting her voice. He had spent three weeks not talking to her, and now he was only a inch away from her? To say she was confused was a understatement.

She forced herself however to focus on her feet, and stepped back with a small stumble as he moved his feet forward. He made a disapproving noise and stopped.

“No, don’t look down, look up. You don’t need to see your feet, just follow my movements.”

Solona swallowed and nodded again, fixing her gaze on his left ear. Yes. That was a safe place to stare at. She didn’t think she could handle looking at his eyes just yet.

The began to move again, slowly, and she found that it was indeed easier when she wasn’t staring at her feet. Gradually they settled into a comfortable pace, and Solona found herself letting out a small laugh.

“I can dance!” she exclaimed enthusiastically, and practically beamed up at Cullen. A tinge of red appeared on his cheeks, and she was rewarded with a small smile in return. She sighed happily and continued her steps, and the moved around the tiny area of the camp. Bit by bit their tempo slowed, until Solona found herself with her head rested against the breastplate of his armour, their feet losing their pattern and moving instead from side to side. She closed her eyes and felt his hand on her waist tighten slightly.

“Cullen, I…” she murmured softly. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t reply. She plowed on. “I should’ve been there too, I could’ve helped you, I’m so sorry it took me that long to get back, I -“

“Solona,” he cut her off, his voice pained. She immediately pulled out of his arms and turned away, staring at the fire.

“I know you hate me and all mages, and I don’t blame you,” she took a shuddering breath and continued, “But for what it’s worth, I am truly sorry.”

“Solona, I - “

“Oh sorry, am I interrupting something?” a smooth voice came from one of the tents. The two sprang apart in a flash, and Solona could feel her face flushing. Cullen glared at the elf, who gave him a cocky grin in return.

“N-no, you’re not Zev.” Solona stammered, smiling nervously, her hands toying with the hem of her sleeve.

“Oh, good.” The elf pressed a hand to his heart as he moved towards her dramatically. “It would wound me terribly if I had hurt you, my deadly sex goddess.”

Solona couldn't help but give a laugh, completely missing the way that Cullen’s hands bunched into fists as he glared murderously at the assassin. Zevran however, did not miss the implications behind it, and merely grinned before slinging an arm around Solona’s shoulders.

“Come, my goddess. To bed with you, your shift is over. We all know how much you humans need your beauty sleep.” He guided her back to her tent and lifted the flap with a flourishing bow and Solona giggled before entering and disappearing into the folds.

The elf dropped the flap and moved towards the fire, making a show of getting comfortable. His gaze flicked over to where the stony templar was standing, and he cocked his head slightly.

There was a lengthy pause, before he grinned. 

“You know, If you hurt her, I won’t be the only one who’ll tear you from limb to limb,” he stated simply.

Cullen snarled at the elf and stepped towards him, only to have Zevran fix him with a glare.

"Now now, don't do anything rash, will you? Our dear Warden would not be pleased," he smirked. "Now, be a good boy and wake Morrigan for the shift would you?”

Zevran yawned and stretched his arms above his head.

“And go get some sleep yourself. We have a long journey ahead of us.” 


	4. reminders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU - drabble

He always ends up at the café the same time as she does - 8am promptly. He orders a decaf with soy milk and a chocolate croissant and sits in the corner with a new book every week.

She normally doesn’t pay much attention to people this early in the morning (not until she’s had about a litre of coffee in her at least) but there was something about him that feels, well,  _familiar_.

Maybe it was the tattoo he had on the back of his neck. She hasn’t been  _staring_  at him exactly, but she did get a good look at it once when he was standing in front of her in line.  At first glance, it appears to be an upside-down crucifix with swirls around it, but if she squints she thinks it looks more like a flaming sword. 

Of course, she’s sure she’s never seen it before in her life. In this life, at least.

Then again, it’s probably just her brain making up things because her hormones are drawn to him like crazy. She sits back with her own book at the opposite end of the café and takes a sip out of her latte, and sneaks another peek at him.

Perhaps she’ll go speak to him tomorrow. 


	5. duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU: Amell fails her harrowing.

He’s sweating. He can almost taste his dinner. His grip on the sword remains steady however, as he watches the apprentice on the floor twitch and jerk as if in the throes of a nightmare. 

 _Amell_ , his mind whispers miserably as he can’t help but turn away from the sight. The apprentice which had captured his heart completely and utterly. It was wrong to have feelings for a mage, he knew that. But it didn’t stop the blushes or the stammering when she talked to him with that twinkle in her eyes that said that she knew exactly what ( _who_ ) he was thinking about. 

Beside him, Knight-Commander Greagoir stood silently, a symbol of what he must strive to be - strong and unwavering in his cause. Cullen swallowed and turned his gaze back onto the shivering body in front of him. 

Suddenly, the shivering stops. Cullen grips his sword tighter. _Please let her wake up,_  he prayed. _Please maker, give me this, I beg of you._

Her body twitches again, and her head jerks up. Her eyes were open, but -  _oh maker…_

"You know what to do, Cullen," Greagoir states calmly, staring at the writhing body on the floor, now shrieking in agony as the demon took over. Cullen swallowed the lump in his throat and lifted the sword above his head. He took one last lingering look at her -

_the girl that had stolen his heart, the girl who whistled as she skipped through the halls, the girl whose smile never seemed to waver -_

And with one swift stroke, he brings the sword down.


	6. unbounded circles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post DAII fic. Amell is sent to rebuild the Gallows, and Cullen struggles with old feelings.

He must’ve gone off the deep end entirely this time. But even as he presses his hand to his temples and holds on to the wall with the other for support, there’s no doubting the mage robe that stands out so starkly against the dreary backdrop of Kirkwall, or the shocking red of her hair that reminds him of sunsets (or a flame, a fire, or blood).

_(as the moth sees light and goes toward flame, he should see fire and go towards light)_

It’s longer than he’s ever seen it, but even now she’s kept it in the same style of the twin braids framing her face. He can’t help but stare hungrily at her, watching her gazing around the Gallows with a carefully blank face. Templars and others alike seem to skirt around her, averting their eyes and looking in another direction.

And since there were hardly any mages left in Kirkwall, it didn’t take a genius to figure out who she is with the staff strapped to her back. Everyone knows the Hero of Ferelden was a mage. 

He watches as she moves towards one of the templars in the square, saying a few words that were beyond his hearing. The templar gestures up towards him, and Cullen straightens himself before schooling his features into blankness. Her face tilts up towards him and their gazes lock, and for a moment, he swears he felt everything stop. 

 

—

 

He had requested aid from Ferelden to help rebuild the Gallows. In truth, he was expected a little more than just  _one_   _woman_ , but as she reassures him on their way to Meredith’s office - no, wait,  _his_  office now -  _one woman_  was more than enough for the job. He doesn’t have the will to disagree with the Warden Commander. 

For the first time, Cullen curses the size of the Gallows. She trails behind him, a constant sensation at the back of neck reminding him that _she_ was _here_ , and it’s been more than _ten years_ since… well,  _since,_ and the urge to turn around and stare at her and drink in her features and set into memory everything about her was becoming  _unbearable_ and they are nowhere  _near_  his office.

It’s a relief to be able to put the wide desk between himself and her, and sitting down in the hard unyielding chair reminds him of his position, of their position, and he pushes all distracting thoughts into a crevice at the back of his mind and turns his focus on the task at hand.

"It shouldn’t take me too long to get everything back in order again," she states, biting her bottom lip as she studies the reports that detailed her cousin’s escape from Kirkwall. He tries not to focus on her mouth, or on how she worries at her bottom lip with her teeth, or on the memory of those lips pressed against -

"Anders?"

He starts, the thought dislodging from his mind at the sound of her question.

"The apostate mage also on the run with Hawke," he informs her. "He is responsible for the destruction of the Chantry and the death of all still inside at the time." 

She is silent as she stares down at the report.

"I did not think that he…"  she whispers softly, her eyes sad and distant. Cullen feels something sweep over him, a surge of anger towards the apostate that he wasn’t quite sure of.

"Did you… know him?" he asks, refusing to let his voice betray his emotions. She gazed at the window and nodded. 

"He was… a friend." 

He’s not sure he likes the term ‘friend’, judging by the way she said it, but he can’t let himself be distracted by this.

She sighs and her mouth sets itself into a hard line. “What’s done is done. The most important thing is to rebuild now.”

"And how do you propose we do that?" he asks, unsure. 

"Leave that to me, Knight-Captain."

 

—

 

He offers her the Amell estate in the first week for her to live in while she was here, thinking that she would enjoy the comfort of a house, and perhaps the family history that she never knew about. She takes one look at the place and refuses.

"I am a mage," she states simply. "I feel more at home in a Circle." 

Instead, she settles down in his old quarters. He doesn’t know how to feel when he enters his old office and sees little touches of her everywhere - in the little figures she places at the window sill, the instrument she hangs up next to the door that she refers to as a ‘dream catcher’ (apparently those things are popular in Orlais).

The speed at which she works to rebuild the Gallows though leaves him in amazement. Within a few months, the courtyard had been completely dismantled and rebuilt, the task easier now since the bronze statues of chained mages are no longer there. The templars themselves are becoming more easy around her too, no longer skirting around her presence and some even relaxing enough to talk to her. Perhaps it’s the new atmosphere - The Gallows looks startling different after the renovations, and Cullen can’t help but think that this is the way it should’ve been in the first place. 

He mostly leaves her to her own devices - partially because she seems to prefer it, and partially for selfish reasons. Being around her for too long sets him out of balance. It seems that the longer he spends in her presence, the more his center of gravity shifted until he feels as if he’s merely an object orbiting around her, never moving closer but always circling.

Lately however, it is becoming harder to avoid her. It seems that everywhere he goes, she would be just around the corner, asking him to show her around the city, to introduce her to the new templar recruits, to help her find certain articles in the library. 

He doesn’t understand why he can’t say no.

Well, he does. But he’d rather not think about it.

 

—

 

Tonight he returns from receiving a late patrol’s message about bandits along the Wounded Coast, and is on his way back to his quarters when he passes her door. The light from inside spills into the corridor, and he peers in to find her still seated at her desk, her figure hovering over a mountain of paperwork.

He knocks lightly, and pushes the door open wider to let himself in. She starts slightly at the sound, but her face relaxes into a smile when she sees him.

_(- he likes seeing her smile, seeing her pink lips curl up at the edges whenever she sees him, he thinks he would like it more if she would press them against his -)_

"Hello Cullen," she says, shuffling the stack of papers in front of her with one hand and suppressing a yawn with the other. He moves past the fact that he doesn’t remember when she started to use his name again, and frowns down at her.

"What are you still doing at this time of night?" he asks, a little annoyed at both her for being irresponsible and himself for caring.  

"The Circle in Montsimmard in Orlais is sending over some of their new recruits to us after weeks of negotiating," she states, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. "I need to get their paperwork done by tomorrow morning to prepare the cots for their arrival in the afternoon."

He frowns again at the dark shadows under her eyes, and the weary tilt of her head as she stares down at the forms in from of her. 

"That may be so, but you need to sleep, this isn’t good for your health."

She laughs and turns her green eyes on him, tired but still twinkling with mischief.

 _(just like before, when they were young and foolish and naive but it seems that nothing has changed because he is_ still _foolish and naive)_

"What is this I see? The stoic Knight-Captain caring about a mage’s well being?"

He refuses to admit that she might still have the ability to make him blush harder than anything else, but he can’t think of anything witty to say in response. So he simply settles with, “Yes, I care about you.”

There is a silence that follows his words that he doesn’t like. It is uncomfortable, and her laugh has died and she’s gazing up at him with an expression he can’t determine and then  _oh gods, she licked her lips_  and temptation flares up again, and he wants to kiss her so badly it  _hurts_  -

"You care about me?" she asks softly, her hands pushing the forms to one side as she stands and moves to the front of her desk. She leans back and looks up at him and all he can think about is the faint smell of her perfume clogging up his brain.

_(he’s no longer the same as when he was in kinloch hold, where mages and templars alike fell around him in pools of blood and magic and he blamed her for everything because if she hadn’t existed then maybe he would’ve been spared)_

_(ten years is a long time)_

"Very much so."

_(and he still wants her, loves her)_

And then her lips were on his, and he could feel his whole world crumble beneath his feet and the only thing that was real was the feeling of her mouth moving like fire across his lips, across his skin, and he can’t stop kissing her because he doesn’t  _want_  to stop kissing her.

And then she’s guiding them both back into her private room, letting her fingers find the catches in his armour and dropping the pieces of steel onto the floor without a single care for the amount of noise that they were making. His fingers are undoing the clasps of her robes and then they were finally unclothed and she was lying beneath him on the bed, her face flushed and her lips red from his kisses.

He groans when he sinks into her, ten years worth of wanting and waiting, and it’s better than he could’ve ever imagined. And then she’s arching up against him, his name leaving her lips in a cry and he comes as well, shuddering helplessly against her. 

 

—

 

He wakes in the morning to arms wrapped around his middle, and the feeling of something soft pressed against his back. He twists himself around with some difficulty, and looks down at the woman lying next to him. 

He knows that this would never be the type of romance that ends in a happily ever after. But it feels right. She feels right beside him, pressed against him and snoring lightly in her sleep. 

Maybe this would work, maybe this won’t. But he’s willing to try, and if the Maker can forgive his sins, then maybe he can begin to forgive himself as well. 


	7. burden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amell is reluctant to go to Amaranthine. Instead she takes a detour to the Circle, and it's not what she wants.

The Tower feels almost like it did when she left a life time ago. Repairs are almost finished, and new mages are brought in every day. She hadn’t meant to stay over a week - she knew she should be in Amaranthine by now. No doubt they will be sending her letters soon to hurry to the keep. But something kept making her delay the inevitable. Something… or someone.  

Tonight she sees him, sitting in the corner of the library, book in hand. The glow of the candles softens his features, and from where she’s standing, she can almost pretend that he’s the same as he was before. A time when she could talk to him and he would smile and stutter and blush like a fool, and she’d secretly enjoy the effect she had over him. 

Defeating an Archdemon, saving the world from the Blight, and even beheading a man who had betrayed everything that he had stood for… nothing seems as difficult compared to talking to him now. So she stays back in the shadows, lingering silently. Unnoticed, and most definitely unwanted. And she watches him.

He curses as the book slips out of his hands, landing with barely a sound on the stone floor. Even from here she can see the tremor that wracks his arm. A tremor that wasn't there before.

Her heart aches a little. 

She has to leave tonight. But she lingers just a little longer - long enough to watch him pick up his book, long enough to see tears gather at the corner of his eyes, long enough to see him punch the wall beside him in rage.

She turns her heel and walks out of the library, leaving behind a broken templar and a burden of emotions that she no longer needs. 

Love has no future in a stone tower.  


	8. insomnium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry i haven't updated in a while. this is a sort of sequel to [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/811236/chapters/1542456) and companion to [chapter seven](http://archiveofourown.org/works/811236/chapters/4084098).
> 
> cullen is forced to stay at the circle while the other templar and mages go off to the battle of denerim. the events of the battle were recapped to him, and he thinks amell is dead.

-

 

He still dreams of her.

In his dreams, she laughs but her eyes are cold and furious, demanding his soul with a sickly sweet simper. He would turn to run, but find his body bound with ropes, and her face leering over him. He’d close his eyes, but she’d kiss him anyway, and he’d wake up, retching in horror and disgust.

He thinks back to the days when dreaming about her didn’t leave him paralysed in terror and he hates her just a little more.

 

-

 

He still wakes up every day, and the tower is too quiet. 

The other templars had left to fight against the Blight. One look from Greagoir and he knew that he would be going nowhere. So he stayed with what was left of the mages. The children and a couple of apprentices, who were in no shape to aid the battle. None of the senior enchanters. They had all either died or left with the others. 

And the rest of the mages avoided him like the plague.  

It was so quiet sometimes he wanted to scream.

But he never does. 

 

-

 

_“It was unbelievable, Cullen, you should have seen it.”_

He did see it. Maker, the whole of Thedas would’ve seen it. The huge blinding flash of light that peeked over the horizon from Denerim. He watched from the window of his room as the light flared, pulsing wildly before disappearing. He knew what it meant. He supposed he should've felt worried about his friends, or elated that the Blight was over. But all he could feel was relief. 

 

_“Maker, who would’ve thought an insignificant girl would’ve managed to kill the Archdemon? I remember her barely saying a word when she was around here.”_

No, that wasn't true. She was soft spoken, but she wasn't insignificant. He noticed her. He noticed her everywhere she went in the tower. And she... she had talked to him. Sometimes for hours on end. She had smiled at him. There were days before that he would wake up craving to see her smile again. But now... 

 

_"They carried her down from the fort, you know. Limp as a rag doll."_

He retires to his room that night, and sits down on the bed. She couldn't have survived that blast. Nobody could. 

He flops back onto his covers, and laughs. 

 

-

 

He dreams again, and she's there like always.

There's no coercing this time. No coldness in her eyes. She's clad in a a set of tattered mage robes, covered in blood stains and other substances he doesn't even want to think about. Her eyes lock onto his, and the sadness in them threatens to overwhelm him. Slowly, she reaches out a slender hand towards him. Her mouth moves, but no sound comes out. She looks desperate now, and stretches out her hand further, her eyes pleading with him.

He feels his body move towards her, but he's too slow.

She crumples then, her eyes closing as blood begins to pool under her body, seeping out and flowing towards him. The blood crawls up his legs, up his chest, until he is covered with it. 

 

He wakes up and he screams, and screams. 

 

 


	9. non enim dormiunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while since this was updated, so here's a treat.
> 
> jowan's an ass, amell is curious.  
> NSFW! you have been warned. ;)

-

 

She hadn’t meant it to happen like that.

Not the first time.

 

-

 

It wasn’t first time that Jowan had been whispering about it to her, talking about things that made her blush furiously and want to bury her face into the book in front of her. It was only due to their friendship that she didn't pick up her belongings and leave him to study alone. He laughed at her, of course.

“Oh come on,” he elbowed her with a sly grin, “You’re eighteen and you’re telling me you’ve never even  _tried_?”

“I’m trying to study, Jowan,” she replied stiffly, trying to ignore the burning in her cheeks and the thoughts of a certain someone fluttering through her head.

“You are sorely missing out, Solona.”

He left the conversation there, but the thought was stuck in her head like a burr. She’d be lying if she said it didn’t make her at least a little… curious.

She had never touched herself  _down there_. 

Maybe she should try...

 

-

 

She couldn't tell how late it was, but from the lack of sound around the bathing area meant that it was getting closer to curfew. She was alone, thank Andraste for that, and the heat from the water felt so good against her skin after a long day of study. She ran her fingers through her hair and sank deeper into the tub, letting the steam cloud her senses. Her hands trailed down slowly over her chest, and paused in their movement. Did she dare? After all there was no one else around... except for the templar on guard at the door, and he was facing the other way. She flushed slightly, and bit her lip.

Perhaps? If she was  _really_  quiet...

Slowly, hesitantly, she let her hand run down her body under the water, between her legs, where she had only ever touched to clean herself before. It felt strange, having her fingers there, and she couldn’t really tell if she was doing it right. It felt kind of nice, she supposed, almost soothing in a way. But it didn’t feel the same as Jowan had described it. She stopped and blushed, feeling like a fool. Perhaps she just wasn’t cut out for it. Then she remembered what Jowan had said, about picturing…someone. Perhaps that will work? She leaned back against the tub, her eyes slowly slipping closed of their own volition. Who would she even think about? Immediately, he comes to mind.

The way he smiles at her hesitantly, the way he stutters when he says her name, how he would blush whenever she spoke to him. She wondered how his lips would taste if he pressed them against hers. Would they be sweet?

At this thought, she gasped softly, and her fingers began to stroke herself again, and this time a funny feeling began building under her fingers. Was this what she was supposed to do? She kept her eyes closed and continued hesitantly, letting her mind drift again.

She pictured him, standing on guard like he always does in the halls. She imagined walking past him, minding her own business, only to have his hand grab her arm and haul her into an empty room. He would press her against the wall, and whisper in her ear of all the things he wanted to do to her - sinful things, things that she only dared to imagine late at night when everyone else was asleep.

She could feel her hips moving in time with her fingers, almost of their own accord. There was a pressure building inside her that she wasn’t really sure of, but gods, it felt… good. She didn’t want to stop. A low moan escaped her lips as she pictured his face, so close to hers and moving down, down, down to where her fingers were. She imagined his hands pushing her legs open, spreading her wide in front of him. She ached to have him touch her, to let him do as he wished with her.

“Please,” she whimpered softly, not caring that the templar at the door probably heard her. Her movements became more frantic, and water began to slosh over the sides of the tub, but Solona was lost in her fantasy. He would slide his fingers down towards her center and press against her folds, kissing her hungrily between ragged breaths. Her own breathing matched the phantom in her thoughts, and her fingers moved faster, against that little nub that sent shock waves through her body. She moved desperately, and so does he, panting above her now and telling her how much he wanted her, all the things he wished that he could do, and oh, oh, she could feel herself ready to explode -

“Oh gods, Cullen!”

Her voice rang out across the room as stars burst behind her eyes.

A strangled gasp startles her out of her euphoria, and she opened her eyes lazily to see the templar facing her, his helmet unreadable but his shoulders trembling. Solona felt her heart stop for a second, and slid deeper into the rapidly cooling water, her cheeks burning. She didn’t know what to do, except to stare and hope that he would leave. How much had he seen? Oh maker, she shouldn’t have, she shouldn’t have…

The templar took a step back, and then another, his helmet still hiding his face. He turned, looking like he was ready to bolt, but he hesitated. He turned his head slightly before letting out a strangled, “I-I’m sorry!”

She froze.

It was his voice.

Oh Andraste.

But there was nothing she could do except watch as the templar she had fantasied about sprint away from the door with a backwards glance.

It didn’t take her long to dry off and race back to her quarters, her cheeks still burning from embarrassment.

It was all Jowan’s fault.


End file.
